summer in the city drenches everything in this unbearable sticky heat,
I am here in bed,
thinking about my blue eyed boy:
the sunlight washing over anything,
a daydream in reality,
all this harshness dipped in gold.
isn’t life just misery. and mortality. and suffering.
isn’t this mangled body so tired of dragging itself forward,
waiting for the next trauma to almost-cripple it.
but like the sunlight my blue eyed boy pours his warmth over everything,
my own pocket of the galaxy,
and his sun rays touch me like nothing else has ever touched me before.
summer sticks to him,
summer sticks to me.
and all this sweaty passion is
so strong I feel it from the other side of the universe.